


not by any other name

by pseudocitrus



Category: Tokyo Ghoul, Tokyo Ghoul:re
Genre: First Time, M/M, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-13 01:25:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7956742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pseudocitrus/pseuds/pseudocitrus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Haise is asking around about Arima. Arima isn't sure what Haise wants to know, or what, in fact, there is to know at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	not by any other name

**Author's Note:**

> seems my last series was kind of a bummer so here's something that's a little more fluffy. :) (as usual, though, i'm not sure how fluffy it turned out to be in the end.......;; ) was prompted from tumblr as well.
> 
> hope you're having a good day!

“Haise is asking around about you.”

Akira says this with a small smile. Like this is a story she’s sure will delight him.

“What is he asking about?” Arima asks.

“Hmm…nothing really in particular. Just what we know about you, and what we think about you, and so on.”

Akira quiets then.

 _Well?_ Arima wants to say. _What did you tell him?_

_What do you know about me?_

_What do you think about me?_

But Akira says nothing. Her gaze goes a little distant, as if remembering something, and then her smile broadens somewhat.

“He’s cute,” Arima hears her say, and he almost has to assure himself that this isn’t yet another degenerate’s hallucination, a sound warped by sullied blood and accelerated years. He still remembers her from eternities ago, wringing her mouth from horror into uncertainty.

_“A mother figure?”_

Now here she is, calling him cute. Like he’s a cat she stumbled upon on the side of the road.

“You,” Akira says, “should give him a chance.”

:::

_I am giving him a chance._

_I have given him two hundred and twelve chances._

“Stand, Haise,” Arima tells him, and Haise looks up at him, eyes gleaming beneath mussed hair. He begins to push himself onto his arms. The table squeaks as his shoe scuffs droplets of sweat. He makes it — his legs tremble — he sways, a little, like a stem in a breeze, and the moment he can maintain a pose, Arima lunges again.

Ages ago, Haise wilted under this kind of pressure. Now he leaps back, dodges low, springs and swipes at Arima’s throat, recovers, kicks. In the end, however, Arima cups his hands around him and Haise crumples between his fingers. Arima pins him easily.

 _Fight, Haise,_ Arima tells him silently, but Haise does nothing but pant. His chest rises and falls quickly, heavily. Understanding failure, Haise grows still, trading struggle for mercy.

His eyes meet Arima’s. Haise has been asking about him. What has he learned? What does he want to learn? What is there to learn?

Arima slides his gaze away, downward, as if everything might spill out of him in a blink. His head constricts, and his vision writhes and tunnels, honing in invitingly on Haise’s soft jugular.

His body knows exactly what to do. Two seconds is all it would take. One to wrap his hands around Haise’s neck, and the other to snap it.

Arima stands quickly. He turns and steps down from the table, adjusting his tie and his collar and his shirt cuffs and anything else that he can touch.

“Arima?” Haise calls out behind him.

“We’re done,” Arima tells him. “Good job today, Haise.”

Haise’s shadow is falling on the floor in front of him. Arima sees it shift, sees it raise a hand toward his shoulder. Before it can land, Arima leaves, and ignores Haise’s quiet _“Arima, wait.”_

Outside the office, Arima inhales deeply, and exhales deeply.

To himself, he recites.

_Two hundred and thirteen._

:::

“You know, Sasaki-kun was asking me about you the other day,” Take says, offhand, as his dog takes interest in the corner of a convenience store.

“What did he ask about?” Arima asks, as if he doesn’t already know.

“Hmm…he was just curious about you, is all.”

“What did you say?” Arima asks, as if he doesn’t already know.

“Hah. Of course, I told him you’re CCG’s greatest.” He tugs on the leash and the dog huffs and ignores him and Take shifts his weight to the other leg, continuing to wait.

“I mean…” Take scratches his neck. What he said earlier was a joke; his grimace fades. He shrugs. “What could I possibly tell him?”

:::

If Haise wants to know so much, he should talk to someone higher up. Arima has heard them dozens of times.

_Arima Kishou is a perfectly honed sword._

Then again, maybe they’ve forgotten this themselves. Certainly they forgot that it doesn’t take a sword to forge another sword. And Arima can only miserably approximate anything but.

_“Get up, Haise.”_

_“Stand, Haise.”_

_“Fight, Haise.”_

_“Do you want to die, Haise?”_

They fight and fight and sometimes, usually, most of the time, always, Arima’s heart races too fast. His blood sings. A warm pressure whirls inside him like a storm, threatening to split open Arima’s hard-won reserve.

 _“Stand,”_ Arima tells him.

_Stand before I tear you limb from limb as easily as peeling the petals from a weed. Stand before I snap your spine in thirds. Stand before I crush you into paste. I’ll pluck your head, I’ll scatter you in such fine pieces you’ll float in the wind, I’ll —_

“Arima,” the ghoul says, smiling. “Maybe…maybe we can…take a break for today? How about we…um…grab some lunch?”

Inhale, exhale. Arima breathes. Two hundred and ninety eight. Inhale, exhale. Two hundred and ninety nine. Inhale, exhale.

Three hundred.

Haise’s hand is on his arm. When Arima finally notices it, Haise quickly pulls himself back.

“Alright,” Arima replies.

:::

“Haise is real-ly cute,” Hairu sings, one day, out of the blue. “But then, maybe I only think so because he’s so much like you, Arima-san.”

Arima considers. “Is that so,“ he says finally, and Hairu nods.

“In what ways?” he asks, and Hairu laughs.

“In exactly _that_ way!” she says. “Rather than asking me about him, you should go talk to him yourself and figure it out.”

“There’s no time for that,” Arima tells her. “When I’m with Haise it’s imperative to focus on his psychological evaluation and physical training.”

“Oh,” Hairu says. For some reason, she smiles, and then laughs and brushes at her cheeks. “Physical training. Right. Of course.”

:::

It’s strange, that she says that, given the circumstances. But if she knows anything more, she doesn’t say it, just apologizes and hastily excuses herself.

In front of the door to the office where they practice, Arima waits, gathering himself, letting one minute trickle by, and then another. He sets his hand on the doorknob, and then sets it back to his side.

It’s been harder than usual, recently. He is up to the 400s now and just the thought of entering that room…he feels his skin twitch, starting to sweat.

Haise is getting better, but not better enough. So they go at it, again, and again, and again.

_“Get up, Haise.”_

_“Stand, Haise.”_

_“Fight, Haise.”_

_“Do you want to die, Haise?”_

He can see it sometimes, the faintest ember, a glimpse of something cold in Haise’s eyes whose dim illumination Arima only recognizes because he has seen it himself in the mirror. No one was ever able to grant the wish of that tiny candle for him. As for Haise…

 _Two seconds,_ his body murmurs. _Just two._

The thought, as days pass, stabs deeper and deeper. Arima watches Haise cough and stand, knees quivering. In the curious non-light of vision in Arima’s right eye, an image flashes, again.

Sometimes, the vision is of Haise’s body broken and twisted into angles that make Arima’s stomach churn. Other times —

Arima stills, moved to wait when normally he would already be pointing his pen at Haise’s pupil. Other times —

It’s like this. A half-vision, a mashed-together picture of what is in front of him, and something else. Haise’s broad shoulders trembling with effort. The contours of musculature on his back, emphasized where his sweat-dampened shirt sticks, so different from the withered thing he had been when they first met. His breath coming harsh and his eye fixing on Arima with such focus that it’s clear that, for this moment, for him, there isn’t anything else in the entire —

“Good job,” Arima says. He turns away, placing the pen into his shirt pocket, ignoring the sound of Haise straightening up in shock.

“H-huh? But I’m not — Arima, I can still —”

“I apologize, Haise. It’s my fault. I’m tired today.”

“Tired,” Haise repeats. He laughs, a little. “I’ve never heard you say that. What were you doing?”

“Confidential tasks,” Arima answers, knowing this is something Haise won’t question.

“I — see.” Haise is speeding up, catching up to him. “Well, maybe — maybe we could —”

Arima stops, and looks down, just in time to see Haise’s fingers spread and reaching.

But at Arima’s gaze, Haise freezes, and then withdraws.

The question almost comes out of him, then, just as Hairu advised. _What is it that you’re looking for? What is it that you want?_

But. Even to ask it himself would be meaningless.

Arima can only give one thing. And even that is something that he has to ball up in his fists, to prevent himself from granting it.

“Focus on your training,” Arima tells him. “Nothing is more important.”

Haise looks down.

“…right. Understood.”

:::

Maybe…

Maybe that was what finally stopped him.

Arima waits, for others to approach him, others to tell him Haise has been digging around. But if anyone further has been interviewed about it, they don’t mention it. Akira nods her head to him in the halls; Take invites him on another walk; Ui drags Hairu away before getting distracted with too much conversation.

Haise is done. Arima reflects on his reaction to this, if any. Some part of him feels something similar to…relief, maybe. _Nothing happened._

And another part of him feels…a sort of…regret.

_Nothing happened._

:::

It’s a while, before they meet again. Their various missions and responsibilities don’t align well enough to keep their usual appointments. When finally they do have time to meet, Arima stands in front of the door, gathering himself.

Something is filling him. Anticipation? Maybe Arima missed him. It certainly has been a while.

Maybe the anticipation is about something else. It’s also rare for him to have an opponent he faces more than once. By now, the number of times Arima could have ended this is four hundred and eleven.

“Arima,” Haise calls when Arima finally enters. “Long…long time no see.”

Did he hesitate?

“Hello, Haise,” Arima replies. “Are you nervous?”

“No way!” Haise smiles, laughs, scratches his face. “I’ve been practicing a lot. Are you — are you ready?”

Inhale. Exhale. Arima retrieves his pen from his pocket.

“Of course.”

:::

It starts off the same as usual.

Haise jumps down from the table to shut the door, and then returns. They warm up, circling and performing exercises while Haise debriefs. Soon his statements start turning as ragged as his breath, and Haise stops speaking, focusing solely on blocking and parrying and occasionally venturing something offensive to drive Arima back to his side of the table.

Practice or not, he doesn’t seem to have improved much. Already Haise’s chest is heaving, and Arima takes a steadying breath against the blur of his vision, the drum of his heart racing for reasons other than exhaustion. Arima snaps out, and Haise dodges, not in enough time to keep a button from being clipped from his shirt. He stumbles and falls into a kneel, already exhausted.

 _Two seconds,_ a familiar voice whispers, and Arima drowns it out with a sharp, “Stand, Haise,” and Haise looks up at him, eyes gleaming beneath mussed hair. He begins to push himself up. The table squeaks as his shoe scuffs droplets of sweat. He makes it — his legs tremble — he sways, a little, like a stem in a breeze, and the moment he can maintain a pose, Arima lunges again.

Ages ago, Haise wilted under this kind of pressure. Now he leaps back, dodges low, springs and swipes at Arima’s throat, recovers, kicks. In the end, however, Arima cups his hands around him and Haise crumples between his fingers. Arima corners him easily.

 _Fight, Haise_ , Arima tells him silently, but Haise does nothing but pant. His chest rises and falls quickly, heavily. Then his expression hardens, and he twists, stealing Arima’s pen before throwing himself out of range.

In his surprise, Arima doesn’t retaliate in time to prevent Haise from lunging at him again, and connecting. In his surprise, Arima falls back completely, onto his back, with Haise above him, the pen aimed at his left eye. Pinned.

Arima’s vision blurs, tunnels. Haise above him, so close, so close. Arima’s blood rushes, sings. Velvet muscle, fragile frame, focused eyes. In this moment, for Haise, there’s only Arima. And for Arima —

_Four hundred and…and —_

“Get up, Haise,” Arima says. He hears himself, as if from a distance; his voice, compared to usual, is breathless. He doesn’t trust himself to move. Haise’s mouth purses.

“No.”

Arima makes himself inhale. Exhale.

“I’ll kill you,” Arima tells him, and Haise, still panting, laughs softly.

“No,” he replies. “I don’t think you will.”

Reckless. Arima tries to contain himself as his fingers start to tremble. All this time he thought he was training Haise to survive, and instead he was just teaching him not to have fear, to misunderstand how close he is to death.

 _Two seconds._ He can’t stop himself from thinking it anymore.

_Two seconds._

_One to free himself from Haise’s hands. The other to drag down his mouth close and —_

_Or. One to taste the sweat on his throat. The other to catch the remaining buttons of his shirt and rip off every —_

_Or. One to roll him onto his back. The other to press hips to spread his legs and —_

“ _Haise_ ,” Arima gasps, “ _get up_ ,” and for a second it looks like Haise will do it, he tosses away the pen and shifts position, but instead of standing, he leans, nears. Before Arima can do anything, Haise kisses him.

:::

It’s almost nothing, a mere brush of their lips together, as light as a butterfly’s wing beat. But Arima stiffens as if hit, and his mouth opens to suck in a breath, and Haise takes the opportunity to kiss him again, a little harder, his tongue alighting on Arima’s parted lips, waiting until Arima, suddenly, exhales, and tastes him back.

Haise makes a small noise of satisfaction, the kind someone might when having the first bite of a long-awaited meal, and Arima feels his chest twist. His body moves, finally, finally — grabbing Haise’s face and drawing him firmly closer — holding him in place as his soft noise becomes a moan that Arima smothers with another kiss, and another, and another, each one deeper and more desperate than the last.

He never felt this way, or maybe never let himself feel it, or maybe he always did feel things like this and never noticed. The filth of non-human blood inside his body only expressed itself in strength, but now he feels himself frantic with a kind of hunger that he knows can’t really belong to him, a powerful need to strip Haise bare and claim his every centimeter of smooth skin and muscle. It would be easy. Easy.

 _I have to stop_ , Arima thinks, between breaths, _I must — before I — I have — have to —_

Arima sits up, to escape, but Haise simply shifts to straddle him. Arima starts to remove himself from Haise’s grip but Haise only tightens, and sits lower, doing his best to prevent their separation. Haise eases closer, until they are belly-to-belly. With caution and then with firm deliberation Haise’s hand fits between them. His fingers curl, and Arima holds his breath as Haise finds his erection, and squeezes, and strokes. He isn’t sure then, whose hips move first, only that they are grinding against each other, and the friction even through their clothing is generous, and Haise is making another wordless noise.

“It feels good,” Haise groans, and he is serious, he feels _good_ , and this realization that Arima can do this, that Arima is capable of causing pleasure like this, is like liquor. It intoxicates; Arima’s head goes light. Haise’s face is red and redder when Arima presses his mouth against Haise’s right eye, and Haise is so lost in it that he doesn’t protest Arima pushing him away again, though this time it’s just to make enough space between them to start removing Haise’s tie and unbuttoning his shirt. Haise helps him, shrugging off his clothing, and going further, lifting his legs and pushing down his pants, his underwear.

“Haise,” Arima breathes. He tries to make himself say, _You shouldn’t_. Or, _I shouldn’t_. Or even, _We —_

“I locked the door,” Haise replies.

Arima’s body is heating, uncontrollably. The muscle that Arima’s eye traced so closely is laid before him, and with a shaking hand Arima caresses all of it, with hands and mouth, drinking in Haise’s every moan. Haise’s hands drift lower, unbuckling, unbuttoning, freeing Arima’s erection. His pumping hand makes Arima’s breath stagger, makes him even harder, and Haise strokes himself as well, breathing steadily, and then removes his hand from his cock and inserts his fingers into his mouth, and works them in and out until they gleam with saliva. He straightens himself up on his knees, and he moves his hand behind his back, and low, stroking. Then he stops stroking Arima’s cock, and positions himself against it. But before he can move further, Arima’s hands brace up, pausing him.

“Haise,” Arima mutters. “Is this really what you want?”

All of that asking. All of that searching. Haise’s gaze slips toward him.

“Yes,” he says. “Just…just as much as you.”

That gives Arima pause.  _Did…I want this_?

_How…could he have known I wanted something like this?_

No one else would know that. No one else had ever indicated awareness that there were things Arima could want, much less ever suggested to him that there was anything Arima could do besides take up his suitcase. Haise’s gaze focuses on him, one eye brightening into a vibrant crimson.

_I –_

_I want –_

After a deep breath, Haise starts to lower himself, and Arima shudders as the head of his cock slips inside, with greater ease than he anticipated. Haise’s body shivers with every further millimeter — he gasps, quakes, barely seems to notice Arima’s soothing kisses, bestowed until Haise’s muscles accommodate, and almost seem to suck Arima inside, deeper, deeper. Soon, Arima has entered him, completely. Haise is flush against his lap, his cock hard against Arima’s belly, his eyes glazed, breathing as heavily as during any of their sparring sessions.

Inhale, exhale.

_I want –_

Arima begins to thrust, as well as possible in their position, gently. He can only manage to pump himself in and out a couple centimeters, but the sound is wet and vulgar and Haise is shaking around him all the same, and rocking hungrily in his lap, and the sounds escaping both of them are loud enough to escape even a locked door, but abruptly, Arima can’t bring himself to care.

Haise’s eye is darkening, and Arima runs his hands over Haise’s body, up and down, relishing him, smooth and glistening and echoing with pleasure that _he,_ Arima, is thrusting into every nerve. When Haise’s breath begins to catch and stagger, Arima grabs Haise’s cock and strokes it tenderly until Haise climaxes, back arching, muscles spasming, crying out breathlessly.

In the end, it’s this sight that causes Arima’s body to flare and pulse and empty with helpless satisfaction. Haise, mindless and weary with pleasure. The lines that his nails have left on Arima’s chest, the paleness of his clenching knuckles. The sweat parting his hair into messy tapers. And the splatter of his semen on his skin, which all over is flushed, almost as red as a rose.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading :')


End file.
